Take-Two
by DianaLecter
Summary: A little random RHPS insanity. Don't mind me.


Take-Two

Author's Note:  This is the sequel to 'The Floor Show' – which used to be posted up here.  I took it down a while back. I am really sorry (despite what you might think) – although I'm not sure if I'm apologizing to you people or the GD – but I desperately needed to laugh today (or last night, when I wrote this).  Anyway, it had to be done eventually.  Consider it another ode to RHPS-dom.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris, and I'm pretty sure Thomas Harris is the property of Thomas Harris. Ralph Hapshat, Eddie, and Frank-N-Furter are the property of Richard O'Brien, as is Richard O'Brien. Lyrics to assorted songs belong to Richard O'Brien. No copyright infringement is intended.

~.~.~.~.~

The next morning brought old complaints and worn objections from a tired cast.  Yesterday's lunch break had extended indefinitely, both the cast and crew fed up with the continuous revising of the script and the harsh bickering that extended across the recreated set.  What was worse, the director, Thomas Harris, had visited the studio a few doors down to see what progress – if any – had been accomplished on _Hannibal's _new and improved ending only to suffer yet another blowing defeat.  The Rocky Horror cast wasn't cooperating any more than his, resulting in two wasted days and miles upon miles of useless film.

"You think _you're _having cast problems," Richard O'Brien snickered.  "Yesterday during your kitchen scene, Frank distracted himself by playing with that cursed meat cleaver by means which are best left to the imagination.  We have Ralph Hapshat—"

"Hapshit!" shouted a few members of either cast as they walked by.  By now, everyone was well educated in the lines of Rocky Horror Audience Participation, even the most reluctant of patrons.

O'Brien rolled his eyes as if it were a great annoyance.  "Hapshat standing in for Rinaldo Pazzi—he went into convulsions after his experience of 'hanging' outside the Palazzo Vecchio.  And Eddie, well, he simply wishes he were innocent enough to have kept that teddy."  He paused, sighed forlornly and frowned.  "Whose hot idea was this, anyhow?"

"Some maniac behind a computer screen who likes to see Lecter in fishnets," Harris replied solemnly, shaking his head.  "It's disturbing, really.  I'm afraid you and your cast are merely casualties to the madness."

Nodding in empathy and understanding, O'Brien opened his mouth to reply but instead started the first few lines to a song he knew all too well.  "It's astounding, time is fleeting.  Madness takes its toll…"

"Oh, that maniac also has a fetish for the Time Warp, and sends it to unsuspecting victims," Harris reported.  "Rumor has it she once did it in an aisle in K-Mart."

"Good lord!" the man formerly known as Riff Raff gasped, claiming control of his vocals.  "I'm choking on my own lyrics. What a nut ball!"

"You're telling me."

"So what's on the agenda for today?"

As though pained at the reminder, Harris closed his eyes and clinched his teeth tightly.  "If I get through today, I'll write the next Disney movie.  I'll direct a freakin' Pokemon film.  It's Frank's most infamous song."

O'Brien's eyes widened.  "Oh dear.  How is Lecter reacting to that?  I heard there were some problems yesterday.  Something to do with the trite lyrics and the odious participation the cast insisted on throwing in?  They say he wheedled out of doing the rest with a cough."

Harris snorted.  "Uh huh.  Big cough.  Big baby, if you ask me."

"Aren't you his creator?"

"Don't remind me.  It's my fault; I wrote him as a pompous ass.  He struts around here like he's Bill Gates or God or whatever he thinks he is other than a severe pain in the rump."  Harris sighed again with another snicker.  "You shoulda seen him last night.  The cast doesn't know him very well and thought they'd take him to Remington's to make him feel better.  BIG mistake.  By the third square dance, he had gutted this cowboy who wouldn't accept the fact that Lecter doesn't like to dosey-doe and had no interest in going to the tractor pull.  Clarice was laughing so hard that milk came out of her nose.  It was a mess."

But O'Brien wasn't paying attention.  He was studying his wristwatch with growing irritation.  "Tom, I hate to do this, but we're behind schedule.  We're attempting the wild boar scene, assuming Frank doesn't try to stab the poor creatures with his high heels again."  He closed his eyes and shuddered.  "Why did you give me this complex material to work with?  I'm much better with mindless plots and silly songs."

"Well, we're even," Harris chuckled.  "I gotta run, too.  I asked Clarice to warm Lecter up this morning.  Assuming she did her job right, he'll be willing to do _any _song and dance I ask him to do."

"Yeah.  Hey, Tom!  One question.  I thought we were only doing the endings to these films.  Why the full-blown shindig extravaganza?"

Harris shrugged with a sigh.  "It's called an inconsistent plot.  Our maniac will do anything to get the good doc into some fishnets."

"Someone ought to restrain her."

"You ain't just whistlin' Dixie."

Chuckling, O'Brien started for his studio.  "Good luck, Tom.  We're going to have to schedule that dinner sometime.  Frank's itching to cook."

"Well, Lecter's itching to cook Frank.  He's hacked."

"I think Frank would enjoy that too much."

*            *            *

"All right," Harris said, handing out copies of the script to his present cast.  So far, so good.  

Wiggling the cast into their assorted garments had proven simpler than the day before.  Lecter only complained when he saw he was the only one designated for fishnets in this shot.  "It's humiliating enough, Mr. Harris," he had noted as his dressers fit him, despite the protests.  "Remind me again why I'm doing this?"

"Because I said so.  That should enough.  And don't act like you're the only one with costume problems.  Clarice's going nuts because she has to wear a pink dress."

As he speculated, the set was a disaster.  Copies of the script strewn across the room, people modeling their Transylvanian attire.  Jack Crawford stood with Clarice Starling by the elevator.  For all the world, one would have guessed that Starling felt more comfortable in the fishnets and garter belt she had adorned the day before.  Pink really wasn't her color.  On the other hand, Crawford looked most content.  The dull gray jacket and large-rimmed glasses were not so different from what he wore on the weekends.  

Harris wiggled into his director's chair.  "Places!" he yelled.  Immediately, everyone dropped to the floor, namely Mason and Margot who were filling in for Riff Raff and Magenta.  

From the back, the thunderous boom of Lecter's voice suddenly burst onto the stage.  Clarice bit her lip and hid her eyes; Crawford suddenly developed an astute fascination with the script, Ardelia – decked out as Columbia in her sparkly gold top hat and jacket – coughed harshly and looked to the ground.  Moaning loudly, Harris sank deeply into his chair and hit himself on the forehead with his special program.

Clarice locked eyes with her poor creator and nodded.  "He's found the lyrics, hasn't he?"

"He sang that he was a wild and untamed thing yesterday," Harris replied with a shrug.  "Who knew?"

"Let me go to talk to him."  Slipping quietly passed the others, Clarice disappeared behind the crimson curtains at the head of the room, passed the majestic throne and under the sign that read in bold black and white:  **ANNUAL TRANSYLVANIAN CONVENTION.  **Once she was behind the scenes, the yelling immediately stopped – as did all movement in the room.  Everyone, including Harris, who didn't understand the relationship himself, always gave any dialogue between Lecter and his leading lady their undivided attention.  When Clarice reemerged a few minutes later, she had a small, secretive smile on her face but refused to share any details.

Assuming her position beside Crawford, she turned to Harris and nodded.  "All right then.  Let's go."

"All right everyone.  You know the drill.  One take—"

"SO WE CAN GO TO LUNCH!" echoed his faithful crew.

"Precisely.  Okie dokie artichokie, here we go.  Lights!  Camera!  Action!"

Clarice, who seemed particularly anxious to get the taping over with, elbowed Crawford harshly.  "Say something."

No sooner had the words been spoken did the rather predictable team draw in a breath and add to the amusement of all present veterans, "SAY SOMETHING STUPID!"

Crawford, slightly belittled and very confused (he never much cared for this movie), stuttered a bit to remember his line.  "Say!" he said sharply.  It felt like an SNL skit.

The Transylvanians on the ground sat up fluently as the cry came in predictable reply, "That wasn't stupid!"

"Any of you guys know how to Madison?"

"THAT was stupid!"

Clarice smiled and took Crawford by the arm, dragging him toward the elevator as a distinct bass sound started to ring through the studio.  "Jack, please, let's get out of here."

"For God sake…uhhh…keep a grip on yourself, Clarice."

"But it seems unhealthy here!"

"It's just a party…ummm…Clarice."

"Well I wanna go!" Her agitation seemed authentic.  Crawford had never bothered to learn his lines.

"Well we can't go anywhere until I get to a phone."

"Well ask a butler or someone!"

"Just a moment Clarice, we don't want to interfere with their…celebration."

The music was gaining intensity, and everyone on the set was having trouble keeping a straight face.  Simply knowing what was to come was enough to provoke anyone into a laughing fit.  

"This isn't the Junior Chamber of Commerce, Jack!"

"They're probably…uhhh…foreigners from…outta town.  They might folk dance some more."

He hadn't made the line, but no one cared.  The enthusiasm at Lecter's imminent debut made the set hum with excitement.  Even Harris was starting to turn red for holding in his chuckles.

And then he had arrived, tapping a high-heeled foot in rhythm with the beat, black cape draped to his ankles.  He was still in the elevator, not facing them.  Clarice was supposed to be looking at him in horror, but all she could do was laugh.  Between giggles, she managed to sputter, "Look, I'm cold, I'm wet, and I'm just plain scared!"

"I'm here.  There's nothing to worry about."

Then he turned around, and the place fell in shambles.

"How do you do I," Lecter sang loudly, ignoring everyone's rather blunt reaction.  "See you've met my faithful, handyman."  Mason and Margot were supposed to exchange a telling look that would later betray them as traitors at the already-filmed Floor Show, but Mason was screaming for Cordell to get his inhaler and Margot was turning interesting shades of blue.  "He's just a little brought down because when you knocked – he thought you were the candy man."

Lecter pushed passed both Clarice and Crawford and proceeded, with confidence, to the front of the set.  His voice was loud and full.  Once more, he was clearly determined to get this through in one shot.  "Don't get strung out by the way I look, don't judge a book by it's cover."  There was some hesitation as he reached the curtain, as though he suddenly couldn't stomach the lyrics, but he forced himself to continue anyway.  "I'm not much of a man by the light of day," he whirled around, and the room stilled again in anticipation of the infamous cape-throwing scene.  "But by night I'm one hell of a lover."  And off it came!—Clarice fell promptly to her knees and roared.  Though everyone had already seen him in such…festivities…to see it _and _hear the words alongside…it was almost too much.

With conviction, Dr. Lecter marched forward a few steps, planted his hands at his sides and concluded, "I'm just a sweet transvestite," he performed a tantalizing hip-roll that earned a few whistles.  "From Transsexual, Transylvania-ha-ha."

He hopped down and started to march toward Crawford and Clarice again, face animated even as his eyes screamed for someone to shoot him.  "Let me show you around, maybe play you a sound.  You look like you're both pretty groovy."  The word 'groovy' on his lips was downright hysterical, and it made him flinch.  Pushing them lightly with his forefingers, he walked them into a corner.  "Or if you want something visual that's not too abysmal, we can take in an old Steve Reeves movie."

Crawford had to be elbowed again to remember his line—he was in a state of complete shock. Clearing his throat and pushing his glasses back up on his nose, he started forward, "Ummm…I'm glad we caught you at home.  Can we use your phone?  We're both in a bit of a hurry."

"Left!" yelled the cast.

"Right," said Clarice.

"Left!"

"We'll just say where we are and go back to the car," Crawford continued.  "We don't want to be any worry."  Which was overlapped from the scream in the back that echoed, "We don't want to fuck Tim Curry!"

Lecter stopped in mid-song and turned to the rather brainless crew.  "All very well.  Do you see Tim Curry here?"  Then, without missing a beat, he smiled his best Frank-N-Furter smile and tossed a cup of water into the camera lens.  "Well you got caught with a flat, well…how 'bout that?"  He then frowned and held his arms out.  "Wait a minute!  Yield!"  A screeching record sounded through the air and everything fell silent.

"What, Lecter?" a very agitated Thomas Harris asked irritably.  "Stop your yapping.  We're so close to being done! Can't this wait?"

"I refuse to use that improper grammar.  It's absolutely degrading.  It's—"

"Hannibal.  Look in the mirror.  We're rolling."  Harris shook his head emphatically.  "And action!"

The music started playing again, precisely in place.  With a sigh, Lecter picked up without missing a beat.  "Well babies, don't you panic.  By the light of the night—" His wrists made a rolley-action as he marched back to the front, where Ardelia was meeting him. "It'll all be all right.  I'll get you a satanic mechanic.  I'm just a sweet transvestite."

As he and Mapp timely thrust their hips out with the music, the crew yelled their typical, "Boomshika, boomshika, boomshika!"

"From Transsexual—" Another hip roll. "Transylvania-ha-ha."  And he was settled onto his throne, legs perched over the side.  He looked very uncomfortable, but very sexy, and was making the best of it.  On cue, Mason, Margot, and Ardelia all circled the chair, taking their designated places.  "Why don't you stay for the night?"

"Night!" Mason repeated with a vicious hiss, made all the more convincing with his inhaler.

"Or maybe…a bite."

"Bite!" Ardelia chimed in.

"I could show you my favorite…obsession."

"SEX!" yelled the crew.  Lecter rolled his eyes.

"I've been making a man," he continued.  A shudder coursed through him in disgust, reminding everyone how very much he resented this position.

"You call that a man?"  they shot back.

"With blond hair and a tan."

"You call that a tan?"

"And he's good for relieving my…"

"Sexual!"

Lecter shuddered again.  "Tension.  I'm just a sweet transvestite…" Slowly, he started to stand, being sure to exaggerate all body parts as much as possible, earning a wink of encouragement from Clarice.  "From Transsexual, Transylvania-ha-ha."  Then, with two sharp hits to his own posterior, he made for the light at the end of the tunnel, singing with full force.  "Hit it!  Hit it!  I'm just a sweet transvestite…"  And he was out, pushing Crawford and his beloved harshly away from each other (which required little acting) to make room for his path.  

"Sweet transvestite!" his back-up singers echoed.

"From Transsexual…"

"Transylvania-ha-ha!"

In the elevator again, Lecter turned for the conclusion.  "So.  Come up to the lab."

"I can't come that high!" screamed the crew.  

"And see what's on the slab.  I see you shiver with antici…" Lecter trailed off as according to the script, frowned, then held his hand up again.  "Mr. Harris?"

The director couldn't believe it.  Wide-eyed, he leered forward and practically screamed, "For Christ's sake, Lecter, what is it?!"

"Why would he pause this long?  I don't see the point.  It only seems to fuel the audience—"

He had no time to listen to this.  Shaking his head, Harris brushed off the question and yelped:  "Action!"

"SAY IT!" the waiting team yelled.  This was, of course, followed by one lone voice that whispered, "Master…"

"Pation," Lecter concluded.

"What the fuck is masturpation?"  

"But maybe the rain isn't really to blame," the doctor sang.  "So I'll remove—"

"Your clothes!"

"…the cause."  Then, chuckling, he reached for the controls on the elevator, closing the small gate that sealed the space between himself and the rest of the crew.  "But not the symptom!"

And up went the elevator.  The music rang briefly before dying, and an astute round of applause broke out amongst the cast.  It was finally done.  They finally had the notorious Dr. Hannibal Lecter singing Sweet Transvestite in the appropriate attire on tape.  

"That's it," Lecter announced as he made his way to the lower floor.  "I'm taking this disgusting thing off, and I'm never putting it back on.  Kindly leave me out of all business negotiations in the future, Mr. Harris.  I've had quite enough of you."

Harris rolled his eyes as his prize character vacated the set, turning to Clarice, whom had only begun to recover her hysterics.  "You know, I've been thinking," he said thoughtfully.  "Do you think Stephen King would be up to making the deal of a lifetime?"

FIN


End file.
